


Painting the Past

by thebarricadebaes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Non-linear timeline ish??, They died holding hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebarricadebaes/pseuds/thebarricadebaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of all those who stood at the barricade, Grantaire's room stands empty. A paintbrush's bristles begin to fall, but within each bristle lies a moment shared between Enjolras and Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Wow so this is my first fanfiction so basically please don't rip my head off if I messed up big time.

Dust softens the harsh edges of the empty room. It masks the piles of parchment and it flits over the paint stains that mar the creaking floor. An empty mattress sits with blankets strewn about in an unorganized fashion.  
A bristle from a paintbrush meanders towards the ground, dancing playfully on the slight currents within the room. The paintbrush is caked with creamy paint, and can never be persuaded to be its previous pliability again. The paintbrush had once been held in the firm grip of a lanky man. The man had been laughing, and scratching at his dark curly hair with the butt of the brush. Before him was a painting perched on a ratty easel.   
Another man with blonde hair leaned forward on the mattress, the morning light casting shadows on his feminine jawline. He was gazing in admiration at the canvas. “It is beautiful, Grantaire.” Restless, the man stretched, and Grantaire shook his head. Sunlight filtered through Grantaire’s messy hair, lighting the dark strands to a buttery color.  
“It does not do you justice,” Grantaire said, wincing as he looked at the canvas. He dipped the paintbrush in a creamy colored paint and added a few strokes to the already unruly hair depicted on the canvas. The painting depicted the other man, his olive skin glistening with sweat and the background was a pastel yellow. Grantaire sighed and set the brush down. He usually took great care with his art supplies. They were really the only thing he took great care with. However, the paintbrush had to resign to its fate of never being useful again, except as a reminder of the golden swathes which had graced both the canvas and the head of the leader of the revolution.   
Grantaire leaned forward, taking the other man’s hands and pulling him into a standing position. They stood, holding onto each other’s hands in silence until Grantaire uttered an apology. “Oh, Enjolras, that picture hardly looks at you at all. I’m sorry.” He pulled Enjolras closer. “You must be made of marble, for I have never seen any mortal be so strong and beautiful.” A bit of yellow paint, still on Grantaire’s hand, stained Enjolras’s glimmering olive skin.  
Enjolras bristled, “Never have I seen a man with such grace in his fingertips, but enough wine in the rest of him to cancel it out, be as wonderful as you. You could make stories come to life and women weep with a stroke of your brush, and yet you choose a life of darkness and wine instead of one consumed by light and creation.” Enjolras breathed deeply, closing his eyes and letting the anger pass. He softly took Grantaire’s hand and guided it to his chest. Enjolras’s heart beat a steady rhythm and pounded against his ribs, almost in protest of its cage. “I am as human as you, R.”  
Grantaire looked down, and softly stroked Enjolras’s chest. He leaned his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras squirmed away a few seconds later, embarrassed by the closeness of Grantaire. “I was supposed to meet Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the Musain half an hour ago.” Enjolras rushed away, his heart pounding with adrenaline, and his head pounding with guilt at leaving Grantaire alone.  
Grantaire rushed after Enjolras, sinking onto the floor as the door slammed shut before Grantaire could make it there. The room seemed darker, and the soft smile disappeared from Grantaire’s face.   
The paintbrush sits in the basket, the wooden base of the brush chipped and scratched. The room is muted with time. The sun barely filters through the dust on the windows.   
Another bristle floats off of the paintbrush, arcing up as the wind catches it and smoothly running past a slice of sunlight. The sunlight catches it for a half second, illuminating the slight black stain on the bristle. The bristle careens down and joins a pile of dust on the rotting floor.   
The brush was once used to capture the stars. The same lanky man had gripped it, the brush covered in black paint. The man was smiling from ear to ear, and a slight blush was spreading over his cheekbones. The sky outside was dark and sprinkled with stars. The stars pierced through the windows and left pinpoints on the floor.  
“Hey Enjolras, take your shirt off,” Grantaire cooed, stepping closer to the man with blonde locks. Grantaire took another step and blocked the window, the room darkening as the stars disappeared from the floor.  
Enjolras, who had been lying on the mattress, a sprawl of papers laid out in front of him, and a pen in his mouth, froze. “What,” he said. The shock was clear on his face. It was more of a statement than a question. He looked down again at his notes, his muscles tense as he a few more notes to the paper. Grantaire stood off to the side, with a pleading look in his eyes. Enjolras finally sighed and started to pull off his button up. One of the buttons got caught in his curly hair, and Enjolras flinched. He knocked his inkwell over and black ink blotted onto empty parchment. Inhaling sharply, he managed to pull the shirt off.   
Grantaire grimaced, “Sorry,” he whispered. “You don’t have to. It was a demand unfitting for one such as you. I’m sorry I ruined your work.”  
Enjolras would have been ruffled if it had spoiled his work, instead of just blank parchment. “It’s nothing, R.” Enjolras stacked the ruined parchment onto a pile of his discarded plans. “Now why did you ask me to pull off my shirt?”  
Grantaire shrugged, still guilty over the spilled ink. “I wanted to paint on your back,” he said quietly, holding up the brush. Grantaire felt a sinking feeling inside of him as Enjolras just stared at him. “No, listen. Never mind. I’m sorry.”   
Enjolras dipped his pen in the half-full inkwell and pressed it onto another piece of parchment, beginning to detail the plan for the barricades. “You can draw on my back if I can keep working, Grantaire.”   
Grantaire grinned and dipped the brush in black paint. He crouched next to Enjolras on the bed, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’s skin before placing the paintbrush down. Enjolras stiffened out of surprise but said nothing. Grantaire swirled the brush and moved with determined motions. Enjolras could feel that the paint was still wet when Grantaire moved on to the next layer. He dipped the brush in color after color in paint. The colors swirled together into galaxies and constellations. In the center of the painting stood a glowing barricade, figures standing tall and proud on the shockingly detailed structure. A glimmering red star illuminated the barricade and cast shadows crimson as blood. Grantaire, satisfied, stood and cleaned the brush.   
Enjolras twisted to see what the painting showed, and he smiled tightly when he saw the barricade. “I thought you didn’t believe in our cause.” He stood, and took half a step towards Grantaire before Grantaire burst into a rant.  
“Your cause is a cause of hope and of freedom. But there is no hope that we can ever achieve freedom. What is freedom anyway, but a cruel illusion? We are all slaves to death and sooner or later, everyone stumbles into it. There is no such thing as freedom and it is pointless. We are all slaves to death, and to our own urgings and instincts. There is-“   
“Grantaire,” Enjolras said firmly, “Thank you.”  
Grantaire broke off, his hand creeping closer to Enjolras’s. He looked up at Enjolras, making eye contact as he stared at the other man’s face. He took Enjolras’s hand in his and kissed it impulsively. It was almost an act of worship, and Enjolras noticed the reverence in the motion. Enjolras saw himself as an equal to Grantaire, if a somewhat more sober equal and his lip curled in distaste at Grantaire’s act of submission. “I believe in you, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, his eyes gleaming.   
“A skeptic finding his belief in the follower of the thing he despises? Why do you still come to the meetings in the Musain if you do not follow our cause?” Enjolras said quietly, “Surely it is not just my charisma.”   
Grantaire laughed heartily, “Look at you, you are the sky. You are the stars. All will follow you to the revolution, O Apollo! I painted a star on each imperfection on your skin. And I worship every one.”  
Enjolras dropped Grantaire’s hands, “And what of you? Will you join us at the barricade?” Enjolras almost wished Grantaire to shake his head: one less death to be responsible for. He doubted the drunk would show up, even if he pledged to, but he wanted reassurance that he would not.  
“I will die by your side,” Grantaire whispered. He felt a blush form on his cheeks as he made his wishes known. He would always follow his red star.   
Enjolras simply shook his head. “You will not die, Grantaire,” he said, with the fiery resolve that characterized his every belief. He lay down on the bed again, gnawing at the end of a pen, and began to work once more.   
Grantaire sat beside him, leaning onto Enjolras slightly as Grantaire started sketching what he could see of the outside. “It’s all so empty, out there,” Grantaire said quietly. He doubted Enjolras even heard, as it elicited no response.   
The paintbrush sits quietly in the abandoned room. All of the noises in the room are subdued by dust and decay. No mice roost in the walls and no woodpeckers dare blemish the pure room of one once living.   
An explosion of sound assaults the room, three soldiers in pristine uniforms crash into the room. Their uniforms are too crisp and fresh. Their edges are too sharp for the room muted by time. One grabs the paintbrush out of contempt and snaps it. Bristles fall down by the hundreds. Enjolras angry. Enjolras attempting to sketch Grantaire. Enjolras-  
The soldier kicks irritably at the pile of bristles. They scatter, and lie flat just as Enjolras and his comrades did on the barricade. Two bristles in particular sit closer together. One of the bristles was fraying, and it seemed to latch on to the other. Just like Enjolras and Grantaire, the bristles died holding hands.


End file.
